


What If It's Us?

by archersandsunsets, rosegardeninwinter



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: 74th Hunger Games, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, F/M, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Marriage of Convenience, Mutual Pining, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:07:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23345200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archersandsunsets/pseuds/archersandsunsets, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosegardeninwinter/pseuds/rosegardeninwinter
Summary: "I am unused to waking in warmth. The houseparents at the Community Home had money to keep a stove going if they wanted, but they kept it for more important things. Buying themselves good fruit and sour liquor. Gambling. Keeping the Peacekeepers from levying charges of mistreatment. My cheek was stinging from my most recent punishment the night Peeta Mellark asked me to marry him." In Panem AU.Free at last from the Community Home, Katniss Everdeen has a new lease on life with her sister and her best friend. It's her last year in the reaping. Peeta's too. And Prim's name is only in there a handful of times. The odds have to be in their favor . . . right?
Relationships: Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark
Comments: 112
Kudos: 142





	1. The Reaping

**Author's Note:**

> for @thehopefuldandelion on tumblr, who gave Cate the idea with her title prompt

I am unused to waking in warmth. The houseparents at the Community Home had money to keep a stove going if they wanted, but they kept it for more important things. Buying themselves good fruit and sour liquor. Gambling. Keeping the Peacekeepers from levying charges of mistreatment. My cheek was stinging from my most recent punishment the night Peeta Mellark asked me to marry him. 

Blearily, I turn over to look for him on the trundle, but he isn’t there. I groan and shove up on my elbows, rubbing my eyes until the details of the house clear before me. It’s light out. Early morning sunlight glows behind the curtains and dances dreamily over the walls. Through the bedroom doorway, I can make out my sister, kneeling by the fire, knocking a poker against the wood. My mother would cry to think of her daughters living in this shack on the edges of the Seam. I shiver at the memory of my mother, her grief gnawing her away to bone and dust, leaving us orphans. Instead, I think of my father and his stories of fairy downs in the forest. Mossy roofs and flowers in every nook. Our roof is tin, and a lone jar of dried lavender sits on the table, but it’s enough.

I slip out of the bed and shove the trundle back into place under it. The frame scrapes and squeals loudly. I give my sister an apologetic grimace.She only laughs and reaches up to take my hand as I join her by the hearth. “Good morning.”

“I should hunt,” I say.

I should, but I don’t want to. I doubt Gale is going to make the trek out past the fence. He’ll want to stay at home with his mother and siblings. I can’t blame him for that. He’s no longer eligible to be reaped, but his brothers are. His brothers, my sister, Peeta, me. Any one of our names could be called.

No, I don’t need to hunt today, but I am aching for the forest. My father’s sanctuary — and mine. Prim and I had been living at the Community Home for months before I remembered about the bow and arrows Pa stashed under a log for archery practice. Since then, I snuck away every Sunday afternoon to crawl under the fence and into the safety of the trees. I taught myself to climb up into the highest boughs and gaze out at the foothills tumbling away to meet the horizon. I gathered juicy blackberries to share with Prim after chores. I cut my hands to get in among the brambles, but seeing her underfed face light up was worth it. The watery soup and stale bread we were rationed for meals wasn’t nearly enough to keep my sister’s frame from staying almost as gaunt as it was when we were starving. I knew I had to get her something heartier, but teaching myself to hunt was a real trick. Until I met Gale, that is.

He told me how his father had been taken in the same accident that took mine. He told me how Rooba the butcher would pay a fair price for good meat. That was how he kept his family fed. He could help me keep mine fed if I wanted, show me how to set traps and where the best places for shooting were. That was how I always had something extra for Prim to gobble up after meals. Her face softened. The color came back to her skin. She became strong again. I became strong alongside her, fed by fresh air and the feeling of my father’s presence.

Prim must read my look. “Don’t go hunting, Katniss. It’s not worth it.” She means because every Peacekeeper in 12 will be on duty today. Most of the time, that wouldn’t be an issue. I sell to half of them on a regular basis, but people want to appear above board on reaping day. It’s better not to risk being locked up for poaching. “Besides,” Prim adds, “Peeta went to get us something from the bakery.”

The bakery, where his mother still works. Since he’s a legal adult, he’s allowed to do that, but I can’t imagine why he’d want to come face to face with the woman who used to beat him so badly that even our lenient law enforcement noticed and took him away. Not that the Community Home was better.

Or maybe it was. Peeta says it was. Because he had us. “My girls,” he calls us — and we are.

I decide not to go hunting. I get the blanket from the back of the rocking chair and wrap it around me. Sit by my sister. She tells me how she spotted an orange cat picking through someone’s trash on the way into town. “I think it’s a stray,” she says. “I’m going back tomorrow to try and make friends with it.”

I groan inwardly. Of course she is, my tenderhearted sister. “Just as long as you don’t bring it in the house,” I say firmly. “That’s one more mouth to feed. Besides, stray cats are mean.”

Prim smiles and shakes her head, like she knew I’d say that. “Peeta’ll let me keep it,” she says slyly, “and since he’s my legal guardian... ”

“I’m also your legal guardian,” I remind her. “And your sister!”

“You’ll let me keep it too,” she says.

“We’ll see,” I say, but Prim knows me too well. I can’t deny her anything. If she wants the damn cat, she’ll have it. I’ll catch it myself and tie a ribbon around its stupid neck.

Once the fire is hot enough, I take a bucket out to the spigot round the back of the house and fill it up. Prim heats two buckets’ worth at a time to fill our tub. If we’re going to our deaths anyway, we might as well look nice.

Outside, tendrils of cloud are skating by on a cool breeze. Any other day, I’d call it a beautiful morning. I take a breath to steady myself. 

“Katniss!”

I almost drop the water. Some of it sloshes onto my bare feet, and instead of a welcoming wave, I shoot the newcomer a scowl.

“Here,” Peeta says by way of apology, motioning to take the bucket from me and offering the paper bag he’s holding. “Let me. Trade.”

“Thanks,” I say, placated, and incline my cheek for a peck. He gives it easily. The press of his lips is warm and familiar. On record, Peeta is my husband, but there isn’t anything romantic between us. It was his idea to get married so we’d be allowed to adopt Prim. I didn’t look the part of a blushing bride the afternoon we signed the papers at the courthouse, but Peeta is my best friend. He’s the only person in the world besides Prim I’m certain I love. No change in the official status of our relationship is going to change that. 

Now, he puts an arm around me as I open the bag and breathe in the scent. Not the nasty hardtack we had at the Home, but real, honey brown, bakery bread.

“Is this for real?”

“Ought to be,” Peeta says. “My brother tried to haggle me out of a day’s earnings for it.”

I stop myself from saying something awful about Peeta’s brother. When it comes to his estranged family, he’d rather drop the subject than go on a tirade. I change the subject. “I think we’ve got some jam left over from my birthday. This’ll be a treat.”

The bread is delicious and we make a quick meal of it, gathered around the table. The other two stop me from slicing larger portions for them, but I do manage to slather their bread with extra jam, even as Peeta laughingly tries to wrestle the butter knife from me. I’m upbeat as we wash breakfast down with mint tea, but my good mood dissolves as Prim starts to lay out our reaping clothes.

My reaping dress is the one I’ve worn for years, one of my mother’s: faded blue, tied at the waist with a frayed belt. Prim’s outfit is new. Peeta and I scrimped and saved to buy her a pretty floral skirt. I chose the fabric because it reminded me of the meadow. Prim cried when we presented it to her she was so touched.

Prim takes her bath first and I take mine. Then we help each other comb our hair. I’m not as good at it as my mother was, but I can work my sister’s candy floss curls into a passable braided crown.

“Sing something,” she says as I start to plait.

“Okay,” I reply. I couldn’t sing for years after Pa died. I could try, but the notes would get choked up in my throat at the thought of Pa choking to death in the mines. But I can sing for my sister.

“The silver bells have sung their song,” I begin, “and it is time for bed. Far away, you can hear it go on, yet lay down your weary head.”

“That’s a winter song,” Prim says.

“Yes,” I say. Tomorrow, I might be able to sing summer songs, but today my heart longs for the new year, one where I am safe from the Games and Prim is one year closer to her own escape. “I can sing something else if you — ”

“No, keep going.”

One verse. I finish the braids. Two verses. I weave them together to form a circlet that tapers into a knot at the back of Prim’s head. She joins me on the chorus as I give my appearance a cursory glance in the tarnished mirror.

“You look beautiful,” Prim says, tucking my black braid, far simpler than hers, over my shoulder.

“Not as beautiful as you, springtime,” I say. She does look the picture of spring, more suited to a wedding or a marketplace dance than a sweltering pen of people in front of the Justice Building.

But that is where we have to go.

Peeta takes his turn to bathe. When he’s done he joins us at the table in a white shirt and brown pants. Prim crinkles her nose as she looks us up and down. “You’re missing something,” she says. She snaps her fingers. “I know! Wait right there.”

“We have to go,” I remind her as she flits out the front door. “We can’t be late!”

“We won’t be!” she shouts as the door slams. I sink into a chair at the table and trace over the wood grain.

“Hey.” Peeta crouches beside me and reaches for my hand. “You okay?”

“How many times is her name in today?” I know the answer, but I need to hear someone else say it, to reassure myself.

“Oh, Katniss.” I know he’s as frightened for Prim as I am. “She’s only in there three times. They’re not going to pick her.” He lifts my chin. “We’re all going to come home tonight, okay?” 

I want to believe him, to plumb the depths of his optimism. “Okay.” I make myself take a breath. “Tomorrow,” I add, “we’re going out to get Prim her cat.”

“Her cat?” He helps me up. “What cat?”

“She’s decided to adopt a stray cat. I told her no.” I smirk and he returns it. It’s a good thing Prim’s the most selfless person I’ve ever known, because I have no doubt that if she asked for the moon, Peeta and I would start building a ladder to get it for her, then and there.

“Prim’s cat it is,” he says. “There’s plenty of mice for it.”

“Good,” I say, “because I’m not feeding it.” I rub my thumb along a groove in his hand. They’re rough with working in the carpenter’s shop. The carpenter is a good sort. He makes Peeta work long hours, painting signs and cabinets and hope chests, but he pays him more than either of us expected.

“It’s only me at home,” he’ll say. “Go and buy something nice for that little wife of yours.”

This is why, for my birthday in May, I came back from the woods to a feast of a pork and apple pie for dinner and a jar of jam and a bag of sugared almonds besides. We fell into our beds that night, full bellied and feeling spoiled. Prim tells me I slept happily next to her. I don’t tell her what I dreamed about that night, but I remember, and it’s no wonder I seemed happy. I was.

“Katniss, that tickles.” I startle out of my reverie. Peeta’s looking at my thumb trail up and down his palm and there’s something in his eyes—amusement, and something else I can’t place—that makes my heart do a hard skip against my ribs. How long have I been standing here doing this? Heat fans from behind my ears, over the bridge of my nose, and I drop his hand right as Prim opens the door.

“Found them!” she proclaims, brandishing a pair of yellow dandelions. “Peeta flowers.”

My heart gives another skip. Prim calls dandelions Peeta flowers because of what happened on the first day of spring after our parents died. The first spring we’d spent as orphans. I had to excuse myself from history to go cry in the bathroom and came out to the schoolyard sick to my stomach.

Peeta had been playing with his friends and noticed me in a corner by myself. He’d asked if I wanted to join their game, but I took one nervous peek at the group of merchant children who looked and acted nothing like me, and shook my head. I told him I wanted to be alone, but he waved his friends away and sat down next to me. He didn’t try to say anything. He stayed by my side, protecting me from the others’ questions, and let me cry. He helped me up when the bell rang and held my hand on the way to math.

“Can I walk with you?” he asked as we sat down, ignoring the giggles from several desks. “Back to the Home?”

“Sure,” I said. “Yes.”

Prim and I met him at the schoolyard gate. My sister plucked at the strap of her school bag and hid behind my legs until Peeta knelt and held out a bunch of dandelions. “For you. Aren’t they beautiful?” 

“They are,” she breathed. “Where’d you find them?”

“Crack in the pavement,” he said. “They can grow anywhere. They’re tough. Like us.”

She’s trusted him ever since. They’re so alike they could be real siblings, both golden headed as the flowers. There’s one for each of us. Peeta threads his through the top buttonhole of his shirt. I set mine into the end of my braid, where it catches my peripheral vision like a fleck of sunlight. Prim has hers already twined around her wrist.

“There,” my sister says.

“Do we pass your inspection?” Peeta jokes.

“We need to go,” I interrupt, looking at the clock over the mantle. “It’s nearly one.”

The walk is a quiet one. We’re not alone. Families from every part of the Seam and town file into the procession of scraping feet and glassy stares, growing larger as we near the square.

Prim hates it, the quiet. It makes her angry. She loops her arm through mine and leans her head against my shoulder as she and Peeta speak in hushed tones, out of respect for those around us. I tune out everything but the sound of their voices, pointing out a patch of marigold here, the skitter of a squirrel there, the jangle of wind chimes on a porch. But even that fades as we come in sight of the Justice Building.

“Prim,” I say, before Peeta and I have to separate to join the eighteens. “After this,” I promise, “we’ll go find that cat.”

She gives both of us a tight hug. “You’re going to like him,” she says. “I think we should call him Buttercup.” Then we’re split apart by the throng. I knot my fingers in Peeta’s and don’t let go, as we’re shuffled up to a table where a Peacekeeper waits with a big book of names and grainy pictures.

“Mellark,” Peeta says. The Peacekeeper flips through the book, searching for the M section.

“Mellark; spouse, Everdeen,” says the Peacekeeper, marking us present. “Go on.”

I catch sight of Gale at the edge of the crowd, standing by his mother and Posy. I can tell he’s scanning for his brothers. I’m overcome by another wave of yearning for the woods, for listening to Gale’s impossible plans to take our families and make a run for it, never mind that we wouldn’t make it five miles.

Standing here, I think I could make ten miles, judging by the amount of adrenaline coursing through me. One last reaping. One last recitation of the mayor’s speech. One last “welcome, welcome!” from Effie Trinket’s squealing microphone. One last rustling of neatly folded squares of paper.

My mind’s panicked rabbiting is interrupted by a disturbance onstage as Haymitch Abernathy shows up, stumbling into his seat beside the mayor, shouting something rude about Effie Trinket’s garish dress in a loud slur.

I scowl, even though he isn’t wrong about the dress. How can any kid have the slightest hope of making it past the Cornucopia, let alone winning the Games, with this useless drunk as their mentor?

I crane around to spot Prim. The ghost of a smile flits across her face and she rolls her eyes. I know what she’s thinking. _Least it’s not boring._ I muster an answering half smile and turn back to the stage, shielding my eyes from the glare of the sun on the enormous reaping bowls.

Last reaping was rainy. Effie Trinket had to draw the names with a massive umbrellabalanced over her head. We all got drenched to the skin in a summer deluge and I could barely see the tributes who were called, except to know it wasn’t anyone I loved. It hasn’t been this unnervingly bright since my first reaping.

That was the worst one. The houseparents herded the entire Home down to the showers in shivering age groups, eligible kids first, then the younger ones. They hosed us down in a blistering spray of water, had everyone dressed and marched out the door by noon exactly. Prim was crying so hard she could barely move and I had to carry her.

It’s hard to imagine that same frightened girl is the young woman among the fourteens, her chin held high. I forget to fear for her. She looks so confident and beautiful. She won’t be chosen. She can’t be. But I might.

My heart is suddenly in my throat. Its beat is threatening to choke me.

I might.

Effie Trinket is approaching the reaping bowls.

I might be taken away from Prim and Peeta forever, except to return in a shoddily made box.

“Ladies first!”

“Peeta,” I whisper, frantic.

“It’s okay,” he whispers back. I clench his hand to the point of pain. “It’s not going to be you.”

_It’s not going to be me. It’s not going to be me._

Effie Trinket has picked the slip of paper.

_It’s not going to be me, it’s not going to be me._

She clears her throat.

_Not me, not me, not me._

The name reverberates in the square. Relief floods my entire body, sending me into tremors of joy. I don’t even hear who was called. I only know that it’s not me. I’ve made it. I’m not sure why everyone is suddenly staring at me. In confusion I look to see the girl approaching the stage.

_It’s Prim._

The day my father died, I was in music assembly. We were learning a song when the sirens started. I didn’t know what had happened, only that those sirens meant trouble in the mines and that my Pa was down there. The lyrics got lodged in my throat and I thought I was drowning. The song haunts me to this day, in the tendrils of my worst nightmares, the ones where I wake thrashing and screaming for Pa to run. This is the same feeling. My thoughts swarming around in my skull like flies swarm around the Hob, disoriented, searching for something to land on.

_Down in the deep, where there’s never sleep, I work and work all day._

Peeta is rigid next to me, his face a mask of half registered shock. Three slips. Three in thousands. The odds couldn’t have been more in Prim’s favor.

_But I’ll not complain, come sun or come rain, if I can come home to you, dear._

Prim’s dandelion bracelet is wilted in the heat. It hangs forlornly from her delicate wrist.

_Yellow canary, yellow canary, light in the darkest mine._

I have to do something, anything.

_Sweetheart, my sweetheart, light in the window. Promise you’ll ever be mine._

“I volunteer!” It’s an awful, strangled sound, but it does the job. The other kids immediately clear a path as I run forward, darting under the rope partition. “I volunteer!” I lunge at Prim as she’s about to take the stairs and yank her behind me. “I volunteer as tribute!” 

“No! Katniss, no!” Prim screams. She grabs the belt of my dress, trying to pull me away from the stage. I can hear the seams rip. “No, you can’t do this!”

“Let go, Prim,” I say sharply. The cameras are on me, broadcasting me to every screen in Panem. I won’t let myself cry, won’t let myself be stamped a weakling, be made an easy target. “Prim, let go!”

“Prim.” Peeta’s voice is soft where mine is brittle. “Let her go. Now.”

“No, no — !” Prim thrashes and sobs, but Peeta hauls her over his shoulder and back to his place among the eighteens. I set my teeth and climb the stairs to Effie Trinket, who seems flustered by the turn of events. 

“It seems we have a volunteer! What’s your name, dear?”

“Katniss Everdeen,” I say hollowly.

“I bet my buttons that was your sister!” Effie chirps. I don’t reply. I stare straight ahead, out at the rooftops of 12 and beyond them, stark against the sky, the mountains. I can hear Prim continue to sob, hear Peeta trying to calm her down, but I don’t look at them. I can’t.

“Can’t let her steal the glory, can we?” Effie goes on, oblivious to the airless energy of her audience. “Let’s have a big round of applause for our plucky young tribute, Katniss Everdeen!”

No one claps. My resolve almost breaks at their wordless show of solidarity, of defiance. I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood.

Then something extraordinary happens. Gale raises his hand into the air, and the motion ripples out from him, repeated by every person in the square, down the street, around the block. It’s a three fingered salute, touched to the lips, and held aloft. It’s a funeral gesture, a symbol of respect, a final goodbye to someone you love.

I can’t help it. The tears start to run down my face. I’m saved by revolting Haymitch Abernathy, of all people, who drunkenly blusters something about me being spunky and promptly trips over the edge of the platform. I think he’s blacked out even before he hits the pavement. I take the momentary distraction, as Peacekeepers rush up to collect him, to wipe my eyes.

Effie is clearly miffed by this turn of events. She huffs something about propriety and adjusts her wig, which is angled precariously on her head. “Well, what an exciting day this is!” I take a fleeting, vindictive kind of comfort in how frazzled she sounds. “Let’s select our male tribute, shall we?”

As she totters over to the bowl, I make a pact with myself. Whoever’s name is called, even if it’s one of Gale’s brothers, I will not be swayed by district loyalties. If it comes down to it, I will kill him. It may be unbelievably, unforgivably selfish, but from now on, there is only one option for me. I have to come home to Prim and Peeta. I look at them at last, the only people who matter, as Effie flounces back to the microphone and reads out the male tribute’s name.

When it was built, the fence that encloses 12 hummed with electricity. Enough to knock a man out cold was the rumor. It’s not maintained any more. No humming, no danger. Gale and I have never had to fear being shocked when we go hunting. But the hairs on the back of my neck prickled every time I slid underneath it, wondering what would happen, what it would feel like, if something went wrong.

I don’t have to wonder any more.

I hear Prim’s scream, hysterical. I hear a murmur go up from the crowd, horrified. I hear the name Effie has spoken echoing in my head.

There must be some mistake. I must have heard wrong. The heat and the strain of the day must have made me delirious.

I watch Gale break rank and rush to restrain Prim. No one stops him. Not even the Peacekeepers.

I watch Peeta take a breath, square his shoulders, and take a step forward. Then he stops, bends down to pick something up from the ground. A speck of yellow. The dandelion. The one Prim gave him this morning. It must have come loose in their struggle. I watch him set it neatly back into place and walk out of the crowd. 

Then my knees hit the concrete and I’m unconscious.


	2. Farewells & Frills

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> amazingly, when we said "soon" we meant it! here is chapter two! just a heads up, the plan right now is to retell all three books in this universe, with each book being about five chapters long (hence why there's fifteen chapters tentatively listed) . . . and twists galore :D 
> 
> but enough about plans! on to the drama!

“Katniss. Katniss.”

I recognize the voice, vaguely. But I don’t open my eyes. I think I remember what happened, and I don’t want to have this argument again.

The last time this happened, I was sixteen, out hunting in the afternoon of late November, following the trail of a lynx. He’d been a kind of companion to me for a month, spying on me from the trees above my game trail. But with the weather turning, and food about to run scarce, I was determined to have his pelt for sale. Not at the Hob, where a carcass can be torn apart by soup sellers and amateur tanners as soon as you hit the door, but to a Peacekeeper or wealthy merchant willing to pay the hefty price I’d set.

But the lynx didn’t show, and after a grueling few hours trekking the brambly slopes to no avail, I’d started back towards town, growing colder by the minute as my adrenaline dwindled and night came in. I was beginning to think I should have at least told Gale where I was headed, when I lost my footing on a mossy rock and fell down an embankment, splashing into the shallow creek below. Bruised, winded, and wet to boot, I’d hauled myself out of the creek and limped back to the fence. I was fighting back tears by the time I reached it, my father’s jacket drawn as tight around me as it would go to stop me shivering. I wasn’t hurt that I could tell. Not badly, anyway. I was angry at myself. Angry and frightened at my carelessness. If I’d fallen the wrong way down that bank, I could have broken my neck at the bottom. Frozen to death or drowned in a measly two feet of water and no one would have known.

Peeta was frantic. He’d broken his curfew staying out to look for me, though he made Prim stay inside. He found me outside the east mine entrance, disoriented and with my teeth chattering. He was livid as he threw his own jacket over my damp clothes and picked me up like I weighed no more than a sack of potatoes. I wanted to protest, but the wherewithal to do so, let alone stand if he were to listen to me, had left me.

I heard his grumblings as my head fell back against him.

“Katniss, are you out of your mind?” he said in a furious undertone. “You can’t do that again. You have to tell us where you’re going. Prim thought — I thought —”

“I won’t, I won’t,” I remember repeating, long after I was bundled up in my bed at the Home with Prim curled around me, her warmth returning the feeling to my achy limbs. I don’t remember much about the next day, or the next week at that, because it turned out my reckless behavior had brought on a bout of pneumonia.

They doted on me, of course, and I felt guilty for making them worry. Still, I couldn’t help reminding Peeta that I knew what I was doing, even if I didn’t return before dark. The downturn of his lips told me he didn’t agree, but it wasn’t his decision.

The following week was a haze of dehydration and coughing, and it was a while before I ventured out into the forest again. Peeta and I have fought about it since then, about me being out late or alone, but I never forget to tell him or Prim where I’m going. Or when I hope to be back.

 _Did I forget to leave a note?_ I feel sore enough to have been lying in a culvert for hours. My knees are throbbing and my head isn’t much better.

“Katniss. Katniss.”

I force my eyes open and immediately jerk back. Peeta’s face hovers uncomfortably close to mine. I could count every freckle on his sunburnt nose. I know I’m in trouble for something, but I squint up at him in confusion.

“Are you … gonna … kiss me?”

He doesn’t. His mouth breaks open in an amused smile and then he’s shaking his head the way he always does when I say something ridiculous. I blink, and notice the harsh sunlight streaming white across his face, picking up the faint flecks of iridescent green in his blue eyes. His glassy blue eyes. Like he’s been crying.

Something is wrong.

“Peeta. What is it?”

Before he can answer me, the details of the room we’re in piece it together for me. This isn’t my bed at the Community Home or our trundle bed at home. My hand brushes something soft. Velvet. The dress we buried my mother in, her most expensive one, had a velvet collar. I realize I’m lying on a couch in the nicest room I’ve ever seen. The ceiling sports elaborate wood molding and the floor where Peeta kneels beside me is covered in thick rugs. I know where we are now. This is the closest thing 12 has to luxury. But my presence here isn’t a luxury.

“Prim,” I say. “They let me volunteer for her. They let me, right?” Plenty of tributes have fainted onstage before and they just carry them into the Justice Building. But to my knowledge, 12’s never had a volunteer, and I’m not taking any chances my fainting made me look unfit to take her place.

He nods. “She’s safe. Gale’s got her.”

“Okay.” I exhale, but it does nothing to expel my mounting anxiety. I have no idea how long I was out, how much time I have left. They give us an hour for goodbyes, and I need every possible second. “Peeta, listen to me.” I push myself into a sitting position. My head twinges lightly with the action, but the urgency of the moment outweighs it. “You have to keep her safe. You have to keep her alive. You ... you’re all she has now.”

Peeta’s face falls. “Katniss,” he says. It’s halted, hollow, the way he says my name. I know what it means.

I want to stop him from saying what I know he will, stop him from making it true. It can’t be true. “No.”

“Katniss —” He takes my hands in both of his, but they do not provide the comfort I am used to. Not when he is trying to talk me down. Not now.

“No, don’t ‘Katniss’ me.” I pull my hands from his grip, wincing as my scraped palms drag along his. I must have hurt them when I fell. I hold them protectively to my chest.

Both Prim and Peeta reaped. This is the worst possible outcome I could have imagined.

“What should I call you then?” There’s a tense edge to his sarcasm, though his eyes follow my hands in concern.

I scowl at him. “Just don’t — don’t say — ” I’m almost as winded as I was that night in the creek. _Don’t say it._ “It isn’t you,” I choke out, accusing. “It isn’t.”

“Fair and square,” he says. Resigned, like he’s already accepted his fate, whatever it will be.

“But — ” I’m scrambling for something, some loophole. There has to be a way out, a way where I don’t leave my sister alone without a family. “But that’s got to be illegal or something. I mean — we’re married!”

“Doesn’t stop them from sending siblings,” he reminds me.

“No,” I repeat, if only to deny it further. Long enough for me to figure a way out of this.

There is no loophole to save us. The Capitol would never be that kind … or that foolish.

“What do we do?” My voice is timid when I ask.

“What we’ve always done.” Peeta takes my hands again and this time I let him. “We protect each other.”

“How? Prim —”

“— Will be alright. The Hawthornes will look after her until…” It’s then his voice fades. Because that’s it, isn’t it? _Until what?_ Twenty four of us go in. One comes out. “We’ll figure something out, Katniss.”

“We can’t let her go back to the Home.”

“I know,” he says. “We won’t. She won’t have to. Gale will — ”

The door opens and a pair of Peacekeepers step into the room.

I recognize one: Darius, who jokes with me over stew at Greasy Sae’s cart. Though at the moment, his expression could not be further from joking as his partner speaks. “Miss Everdeen’s awake, Mr. Mellark. Let’s go.”

“Go?” Peeta tightens his grip on me. I squeeze back at the thought of him leaving.

“Separate waiting rooms is standard procedure,” the Peacekeeper says. “Up.”

“She’s my wife.” Peeta’s protest is incredulous and I share his disbelief. We’re not in the Capitol yet. These people know us. Know we’d have the same goodbyes to make.

“We’ve already bent the rules for you to be here at all,” Darius says, quiet and grim. “Come on, Peeta. Don’t make this difficult.”

“Let us say goodbye to her sister. Let us say goodbye to Prim together and then I’ll go,” Peeta bargains. Darius looks like he might consider this, but the other Peacekeeper is not having it. She grabs Peeta’s arm and tries to haul him up from the floor, yanking his hands from mine.

“Hey, okay! Okay.” Peeta shoves her away and gets to his feet. “I can stand on my own.”

“Peeta, it’s fine,” I say. To reassure him. “I’ll see you on the train.” I give him a small smile, as if to show that I feel what I say. I don’t, but we can’t get into an altercation with Peacekeepers on top of everything.

“It’s not fine,” he grumbles. “She’s our family. We should be allowed to say goodbye together.”

“Peeta,” Darius warns.

“Alright!” Peeta snaps. He turns to me. I think he’s about to say something, a parting line, a comforting quip, but he doesn’t. The next thing I know, my face is cradled in his hands, and before I can react, his mouth crashes onto mine.

I’ve only been kissed once before—if you can call it that—four years ago when Gale and I were bored out fishing. We did it mostly to get our first kisses over with, because neither of us had them yet, and we still laugh about how wrong and awkward it felt. Safe to say, that experiment made it clear we’d only ever be friends. This kiss is nothing like that.

It only lasts a few seconds. My breath leaves me—out of shock, or something else, I’m not sure—but I don’t stiffen against it like I did that day in the woods. Instead, as the surprise wanes, I give in. It’s not as if I’m unused to being touched by Peeta, but it’s always been platonic. Not this. This … is something else.

This isn’t a kiss between friends. This is the first kiss that resembles the relationship we signed the papers for.

And then it’s over.

“I’ll see you on the train,” he says as the female Peacekeeper herds him out, fed up with our stalling. Darius loiters long enough to shoot me a pitying glance, then follows after. The door closes. I’m left alone, my mind reeling and my stomach sick with nerves. I don’t have space to process any of what’s occurred, because in the next instant, Prim is in the doorway, staring at me with puffy, tearful eyes.

I’m halfway up from the couch to embrace her when she all but tackles me, knocking us both backwards into the cushions. I crush her to me, press my nose into her shoulder, and try to hide. As if my little sister’s arms could shield me from what is to come.

I wish they had allowed Peeta to stay. He’s the eloquent one, always knowing just the right words to calm her. I have my lullabies, but I don’t think they’d be any good right now. If only I knew what to say to her. But she beats me to it.

“You have to promise me something,” she says, her breath hot in my ear. “I want you to promise me you’ll come home.”

“Prim — ”

“Promise me,” she repeats, drawing back and grasping my shoulders so tight I wonder if her nails pierce the material of my dress. Her face is dark and unreadable, despite her quivering chin. I have never seen her like this. “You have to make it, Katniss. Both of you.”

“Prim, that’s not — ” She must know what she is asking is impossible. Only one comes home, and in 12, that’s only happened twice in seventy four years.

“I don’t care,” she interrupts fiercely, “I don’t care. Both of you come home. Somehow. Promise me.”

_I can’t._

“I promise you,” I say. Prim must know it’s an empty promise, but she doesn’t say anything more. She curls up in my lap like when we were kids and I stroke her hair.

“You need to stay with the Hawthornes while we’re gone, okay? Get your things from our house,” I instruct her. “Don’t take any tesserae, don’t try to trade at the Hob. If you need money, we’ve put some away in the sewing box.” My voice catches on the word “we” but I continue. I go on about fuel and medicine and about going back to school when autumn comes, everything she’ll need to do if she’s to keep up appearances. I run through every item I can think of. There’s just one left.

“Prim,” I say, if only to see her happy one last time. “Go find that stupid cat.”

She gives a choked laugh. “You’re sure?”

“I want nothing more,” I say and kiss her nose. “What did you say you were going to call him?”

“Buttercup.”

I hold her tight. “Perfect.”

“You think it’s a stupid name.”

“It can be both,” I say and this time her giggle is genuine.

Too soon, the moment is broken by Darius’s boots against the polished hardwood. “Time’s up,” he says. “I’m sorry, ladies.”

Prim presses herself against my chest, her nose buried in my neck. I press my lips into her hair.

“I love you,” I tell her. “I love you more than anything in the world.”

“I love you even more.”

“Not a chance.”

“Come home,” she says. “Come home.”

Darius doesn’t hurry her along. Prim gets up shakily, tucks the duck tail that’s formed in her blouse back into her skirt. The meadow pattern I spent so long picking out. She’ll have that, at least, to —

“Here,” she says. She undoes the dandelion from her arm and slips it into my braid, alongside the one already there. They form twin yellow stars against the dark twist. Hope. The kind she’s reminding me to cling to now.

“Thank you,” I whisper. I don’t trust my voice to speak louder.

A fleeting kiss pressed to my cheek, a final “I love you” — and she’s gone. I sink back into the couch and will the tears not to come. Not yet. There will be more cameras as soon as I leave the building, and I’ve already put myself at a disadvantage, plummeting off the stage like a drunk Haymitch Abernathy. I will not appear weak.

I’m wondering if there’s a way I can wash my dirty knees before we go to the station when Gale enters, crossing the room in long strides. I stand and he hugs me, tells me that if anyone asks, the Everdeen girls are his cousins. No one will question Prim staying with Hazelle and her children.

“She can help you gather.” Prim knows more about herbs and edible berries than I do probably, from the hours spent poring over our father’s plant book. “Help you feed your siblings and — ”

“It doesn’t matter, Catnip. We’ll be fine. Listen.” He pulls back and fixes me with a hard look. “Getting a knife will be pretty easy, but you’ve got to get your hands on a bow.”

“They don’t always have —”

“— Then make one. Show them how good you are. If they want a show, they’ll give you one.” He gives a mirthless chuckle. “You’re better than me. Bet you’re better than some of the Careers too.”

“Except at snares,” I point out.

“Katniss, it’s just hunting. You’re the best hunter I know.”

“But it’s not. They’re armed. They think.”

“So do you. And you’ve had practice. Real practice. You know how to kill.”

“Not people,” I say.

“How different can it be, really?”

If I could forget they’re people … But I can’t.

“Peeta,” I say, and his hard expression dissolves.

He pinches his brow, curses under his breath. “Right. Sorry.” He sighs. “I forgot.”

“It’s not just me in there. It’s him too.”

“I know.”

“I can’t… I can’t kill him, Gale. He’s my husband.” I’m not sure what that title means, just that it’s true.

“I know.” He takes me by the shoulders. “But you have to think of Prim. You have to win.”

“What if I can’t?”

“You can. It’s what Peeta would want.”

I bristle. “What?”

“Think about it, Katniss. He married you so you could all get out of the Community Home. He adopted Prim so you could stay together. Do you seriously think he would kill you? You think he’s not going to do everything in his power to make sure you come home?”

I don’t have any response to that. It’s a callous thing to say and I want to call Gale a liar, but he’s right.

It’s the same reason that mine cannot be the hand that kills Peeta. Why I must do everything in my own power to make sure he comes home. I owe it to him. It is only now that I recognize it, staring into Gale’s steely Seam eyes. Debts must be paid.

But I do not know how I can ever repay Peeta for everything he has done for me.

Gale reaches into his pocket. “Madge wanted me to give this to you.” The gold pin he holds out glints in the sunlight. I take it between my fingers. “She asked that you wear it. As your district token.”

Wearing a token from my district is the last thing on my mind. But Madge Undersee, the mayor’s daughter, is Peeta’s friend and one of the few kids at school I like. Gale and I bring her family wild strawberries when they’re in season. Gale doesn’t talk to her much, except to antagonize her, but she’s nice to me. I fasten the pin to my dress.

“Good,” Gale says, “I don’t have to fight you on it. She told me to make you promise. She was really insistent about it.” He shakes his head, amused.

This is one promise I can keep. “Tell her I will.”

“Katniss,” Darius is back. “Car’s out front for you. Our district escort,” he adds wrly, a hint of his usual self, “tells me we have a schedule to keep.”

I nod. “Gale.” I cling to his sleeve. Coal dust is smudged on it, in spite of persistent scrubbing with soap and a crude washboard. Like everything that comes from 12.

“Katniss.” He pulls me to him. “Shoot straight.” In it is everything I need to hear: _I know you. I trust you. I believe in you._

I nod against him. We separate silently. He leaves, but the coal dust remains in the grooves of my fingers.

* * *

The cameras swarm and click at us as we board the train, gobbling up our images. I’m gratified to see, on one of the screens that’s airing us live, that I seem almost dismissive, bored. I avoid Peeta’s gaze until we are on the train.

We start moving as soon as we’re secured inside and I gape out the nearest window at the speed of it. The landscape of 12 blurs like the old educational reels teachers insist on jamming into the projector long after they’ve gone garbled and confused.

“This is something else,” Peeta breathes as we survey the train car. I nod in agreement and press my lips together. It’s so cool and clean, I feel grimy by comparison. Seats beckon for you to sit down and enjoy the view or to sample the colorful drinks nestled in tubs of ice on side tables.

“Now that’s the kind of appreciative attitude I like to see!” chirps Effie Trinket. In the commotion of boarding, I’d almost forgotten she was there. She brushes past us, indicating with a flick of her gloved wrist that she means to take us on a tour of our lodgings. “Come, come!”

If I thought the room in the Justice Building was luxury, it’s nothing compared to the tribute train. Effie shows us through a private chamber with a plush bed and a bathroom that might be as big as our entire house in the Seam.

“This room’s for you obviously … Katniss, was it?” she tells me, throwing open a closet to reveal rows of dresses, blouses, pants. More clothes than anyone would ever need in a lifetime, let alone for a single day’s ride to the Capitol.

“You’re welcome to all of these. Now for you, dear … ” She bustles Peeta away. Over my shoulder, I catch his eye. I know we need to talk, but I’m exhausted from all the talking today. From everything.

This is the third time today I’ve been left alone with my thoughts. I absently fiddle with a shiny button on one of the shirts hanging in the closet. Is it real silver? Or is it painted on? I contemplate this for a while, because it’s easier than trying to process anything else.

It’s the stinging sensation in my knees that turns my mind to the bathroom. The marble bathtub could fit three people, no problem. I’m temporarily bewildered by the sheer number of faucets. One dispenses shimmery foam, another some sort of fancy oil that smells like roses, but at last I find plain water. I catch sight of my hands as I reach for the knob. They’re scratched and bloody, fingertips grey from the coal dust on Gale’s shirt. I don’t belong here. I sit on the edge of the tub and gingerly dab at my cuts with a towel.

 _What am I going to do?_ Have the odds ever been stacked this badly against one family? Sometimes siblings are reaped, I guess, and in Career districts it’s not uncommon for the child of a victor to take after their parent, but this? This is unheard of. This is unfair.

“Everything’s unfair though, Catnip.” Gale would say something like that amid one of his rants in the woods. He wouldn’t be wrong either. But he has to be wrong about this. About how Peeta will do anything to get me home … including sacrificing himself. _But why?_ We’re best friends, yes, and on paper, husband and wife. But I’m the one who volunteered.

How do I begin to tell him that I don’t expect him to die for me? That I don’t want him to, would never want him to? How do I do that and make it home to my sister?

I don’t know.

I shut off the water and watch it spiral down the drain. I think I managed to smudge the dirt further down my legs more than anything. The skin on my kneecaps is still raw and my lips aren’t any better. I bring my hand up and touch them, trying not to think about what happened before the Peacekeepers took Peeta away and unable to think of anything else. I don’t understand it.

The best explanation would be that he was trying to earn us some sympathy in the hopes that if he played the part of the distressed husband well enough, he’d be allowed to stay. That’s the rationale I settle on. I can’t afford to think of the alternative. That Gale is right. That Peeta loves me enough to die for me. That love has a meaning other than the familial one I’ve clung to since my parents died.

 _What am I thinking?_ Of course Peeta loves me. It’s like he said: we’re family. Peeta became a part of my family in the Home. After his own family failed him.

Out of the two of us, Peeta was always the one better at spinning a story for the houseparents. It was how he survived before. That kiss was nothing more than him playing the part.

“Hey.”

I turn at the sound of his voice. Peeta leans against the wall. He’s changed out of his reaping clothes into a burgundy long sleeve and black pants. I notice he’s kept his old shoes. Prim’s dandelion peeks out of his pocket.

“How’s your head? And your hands?”

“Fine. Yeah. They’re fine.” I fold the towel I was using, drape it over the faucet, and stand. Peeta follows me as I walk back into the bedroom.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” I sit down on the bed and he joins me.

“What’s that?”

The pin. I unfasten it and hold it out. “It’s from Madge,” I say.

“What kind of bird is that?” he asks when he gets a look at it. “Do you know?”

I shake my head. “It might be some sort of jay, judging by the beak.” But then I do remember, because my father taught me how to recognize these birds. It is a jay bird, though not the usual kind. A strange mixed breed of a Capitol muttation and a district songbird.

“It’s a mockingjay,” I say. “They’re mimicking birds.” I pin it back on. “Did she come to see you? Madge?”

“Right before Prim.” He frowns. “My father came to see me too. Gave me these.”

The white paper bag crinkles as he hands it to me. Was it really just this morning he was surprising me with fresh bread? It seems like a lifetime ago.

“Cookies?” They’re oatmeal with some sort of dried fruit baked in. A lump forms in my throat. Not emotion over Mr. Mellark’s gift, but anger. I crumple the bag closed and thrust it back at Peeta before I do something rash like throw it out onto the tracks, which is what I want to do.

The bitterness that began this morning with Peeta’s brother trying to shortchange him boils over. “Where was this interest in you seven years ago?”

“Katniss, don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because.” He heaves a frustrated sigh. “He’s still my father.”

“Peeta, he stood by while your mother beat you.”

“I know, Katniss. I was there.”

The pressure in my chest releases a little and I’m immediately contrite. I shake my head. “I — Peeta.” I reach for him. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “I get it. I’m not exactly happy with him either. But I guess it’s nice somebody showed up, yeah?”

“Yeah,” I say. I mean it. “So, what do you want to do with them?”

“Well … ” He takes one and tears it in half. “Might as well. They’re free.”

* * *

Effie Trinket reprimands us for spoiling our appetites when she comes to collect us for dinner, but compliments our table manners once we’ve sat down to the meal.

“Last year’s tributes wolfed it down with their hands, the savages!” she says.

This disparaging remark makes me queasier than the food. I wipe my hands on the table cloth, and Effie sputters in indignation.

We go to another compartment to watch the recap of the reapings across Panem and examine the faces of the tributes who will be our competition. None of them stand out to me save for 2’s male volunteer, who jumps up onstage like he’s won a prize, and 11’s female tribute, a willowy twelve year old girl. I feel a pang when she mounts the stage and not a soul moves to save her.

“She’s small as Prim,” I breathe.

“Smaller,” Peeta mutters.

They show 12 last, but it’s the highlight of the night. Prime drama. There are tuts and hums of sympathy as Prim’s name is called, as I volunteer. The commentators are bemused by the audience’s refusal to applaud, and the salute, but decide on it being a product of “backwater charm.” There’s a lot of gasping when Peeta’s name is called and I collapse. They set to speculating over whether or not it was some stunt I pulled, if it was part of my strategy. They freeze shots of Peeta hurrying to my side and carrying me into the Justice Building. They titter and coo collectively about his “gallantry.” I roll my eyes. It’s bad enough to listen to these Capitolites talk about tributes I’ve never met. It’s worse to hear them gossip about us.

The train races on into nightfall, and I think of Prim, gathering up her belongings from the house, leaving the hearth and the table and the trundle behind her — bare and cold. Effie bids us goodnight, advising us to get some rest because we have a “big, big, big day!” tomorrow. This leaves Peeta and me in the sitting compartment alone, and the silence between us quickly becomes thick. To distract myself, I pick at a thread on my reaping dress, which I didn’t change out of before dinner.

“I hope Prim took the leftover bread,” Peeta says.

“She did,” I say, sure of it. “And closed the windows tight,” I say, trying for levity. Peeta has a habit of leaving them open and Prim complains about the draft.

Peeta gives a hum. “That means the house’ll be stuffy when…” He clears his throat. “I hope she can sleep tonight.”

“Me too.”

It’s the first night in seven years that we’ve been apart like this. We were just getting used to the new house, and the privilege of sleeping within arm’s reach. Of sharing each other’s warmth. Of being right there to soothe if someone had a bad dream. Of whispering stories or making each other laugh without the fear of reprimand. Of watching the drowsy firelight dance on the walls. I’m so homesick that my dinner is seriously threatening to make a reappearance. I need to sleep. The grief and exhaustion of the day is going to overwhelm me if I don’t. I take a deep inhale.

“Well, you heard Effie. We should probably get to bed.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of us move to get up. It doesn’t matter what our marriage license says: you would never know it looking at us now. I want to blame it on the stress of the day, but it isn’t just that. Tonight, it feels as though Peeta is a million miles away even though he is right beside me. I can’t help but wonder how much worse it will get. If this is his way of distancing himself from me before the arena, his way of sparing me heartbreak before … I don’t even know what.

I can’t take it anymore. I stand up.

“Goodnight, Peeta.” I hope my voice doesn’t come across as empty as I feel.

He looks up at me wearily. “Goodnight, Katniss.”

I wrap my arms around myself and walk away. Back to my room. There, I change into silk pajamas and crawl into bed. It’s so much bigger than the one at home. The bedframe makes no noise as I sink into the mattress. I never thought that I would miss the creak of bedsprings, the sound of snoring beside me, but I do. The silence is unbearable. I set my Peeta flowers, now dead and brown, on the side table, and make up my mind to let them fly out a window first thing tomorrow. They don’t belong in the Capitol.

If I’m going to cry, now is the time to do it. But I’m too numb. So I just tug the embroidered blankets up to my chin, clamp my eyes shut, and let the drone of the train lull me into a fitful, fruitless sleep.

* * *

As I enter the dining car the next morning, I try not to linger on the sight of the shadows under Peeta’s eyes. I sit down next to him and look to where Haymitch sits nursing a mug of coffee. We didn’t see him yesterday after we boarded the train, but the promise of a hot meal must have lured him out today. Effie has forgone a seat at the table for one by the window, where she is checking her makeup in a small mirror and nibbling on a scone.

I pluck a roll from the basket in front of me and plate a slice of ham. I’m not sure I trust myself with any more. Peeta taps his spoon against a porcelain mug of hot liquid that looks creamier than coffee.

“You’ll like that,” he comments hoarsely. “It’s called hot chocolate. It’s sweet.”

“Oh.” I take a frothy sip and a delicious shudder runs through me. He’s right. It’s incredible. “Thank you.”

Our mentor pulls a flask from his pocket and empties some of its contents into his coffee. He takes a swig, grunts appreciatively, then spears a potato with his fork and waves it at Peeta and me. “So what’s the deal with you two? You know each other?”

“We — um.” I hesitate. Is there any danger in telling the truth? For our strategy? For Prim? Especially in the hands of a lackadaisical drunk like Haymitch? “It … ” I trail.

“Eloquent,” Haymitch says snidely, biting into the potato. I scowl at him. “What about you, blondie? You any more communicative than your little girlfriend?”

“Wife.”

Under the table, I kick Peeta’s shin. Not enough to hurt him, but enough to shut him up. I needn’t have bothered though, because Haymitch bursts out laughing. “Your _what_ now?”

“Wife,” Peeta mumbles.

“Ha!” Haymitch sets down his fork. “Well, I’ll be. That’s rich, ain’t it, Frills?”

Effie, who does look exceptionally frilly in purple today, huffs and ignores him. “Frills, I said — ah never mind.” Haymitch waves her off and grins at Peeta. “That’s a good one, kid. Too bad you can’t joke your way out of the arena.”

“It’s true,” I say, indignant. Seconds ago I was afraid to tell the truth, but now I’m peeved Haymitch doesn’t believe us. “Check our sign-in record.”

 _Is this really what I have to put up with? Is this really the guy that’s supposed to keep us alive in the arena?_ _Is it any surprise our tributes never get sponsors?_ Sure, most of us are underfed and untrained but there have been a handful of scrappy miner’s kids who could have gotten pretty far with the aid of a knife or some matches. I can see why they never get anything. If I was one of those fancy Capitolites, I wouldn’t want to deal with Haymitch either. I can barely tolerate him now.

“I’ll get right on that, sweetheart.”

“If you’re not going to take us seriously — ” Peeta starts.

“Oh, I’ll start taking you seriously when you stop blowing smoke, kid. You really expect anyone to give a damn? It doesn’t matter what kind of … connections you have in the arena. Once the gong goes off, you’re nobody to anyone. It’s every man for himself. No alliance can last all the way to the end.”

I look over at Peeta. _Is that true of us?_

“We are married,” I say loudly, if only to spite Haymitch. I hear Effie gasp.

“Oh, yeah?” Haymitch reaches for his doctored coffee and raises it to me. “I’ll drink to that. Good luck selling that one, sweetheart.” He takes a long sip.

“Haymitch!” Effie squawks. Her head’s on a swivel between the three of us, her eyelashes fluttering madly in alarm.

“What is your problem?” I snap. “Do you have any actual advice for us? Or are all mentors this unhelpful?”

“Only when their tributes are petulant brats.” Haymitch pushes his chair back and gets up, laughing. “Here’s some advice. Stay alive.”

“That’s very funny,” says Peeta. Suddenly he lashes out at the flask in Haymitch’s hand. It clangs onto the table, spilling spirits over the napkins. “Only not to us.”

Haymitch considers this for a moment, then socks Peeta in the jaw, knocking him from his chair. Effie shrieks. Haymitch wipes coffee from his chin and reaches for his flask. I drive my knife into the table in front of it, almost nicking his fingers. The houseparents made me used to drunken rages and I instinctively brace for the sharp slap to my cheek that will follow, but it doesn’t come.

Instead, Haymitch squints at the pair of us and I swear I see the corner of his mouth twitch in a wry smirk.

“Well,” he says, and it’s the most lucid I have seen him, in person or on television. “Now, what is this? Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading *blows a kiss*! come find us both on tumblr @archersandsunsets and @rosegardeninwinter . . . tell us what you thought . . . and be on the lookout for the next chapter in May!


	3. Up in Smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> better late than never, here is Chapter 3! 
> 
> we ended up deciding to cut this chapter short of where we originally planned it out to, because Katniss and Peeta just kept giving us *dialogue* and we've realized that maybe five chapters per book was a serious underestimation ... but the upside to this for you dear readers is: more chapters! and less truncating of beloved moments! 
> 
> the response to this story has been so incredible! we've been blown away, giggling over text every time we get a new comment, and we're so grateful you're along for the ride! 
> 
> and now ... let's see how our dearly beloved marrieds are holding up ...

_Beauty Base Zero_. That’s what I hear the prep team murmur as they hover around me where I lie on some sort of showering table. Water trickles into a drain under their squeaking shoes while they scrub and soap every vulnerable inch of me, rinsing the products away and repeating the process three more times until my skin stings. They stand me up and circle me with tweezers and wax strips, yanking hair from my body until I feel like a plucked bird in 12’s weekend market.

“There!” chirps the one called Octavia, as they finish slathering me in creams and strong scented oils that make my nose itch. “You look almost like a human being now!”

“Thank you,” I say sweetly. I force my lips into a smile. “We don’t have much reason to dress up at home.” The words fall easily from my mouth. I’m experienced enough, after dealing with some of the stricter houseparents, to know what to say, how to say it, and when, to garner a halfway lenient reaction.

Flavius’s orange corkscrews bob as he laughs. Venia clasps her hands in distress for me. Octavia’s face darkens in a blush underneath the pea green dye at my flattery and she pets my braid indulgently.

“Oh, of course you don’t, dear!”

They’re so funny, these Capitol people with their particularities about trimmed eyebrows and silky bare skin. At the Home, our idea of cleanliness meant a cursory swipe of a damp rag, or, on reaping days, a freezing spray down. They’re so precise here, so thorough and delicate, like I’m some sort of bizarre art project to be judged later.

I want to roll my eyes at them, but I remember what Haymitch told us before we disembarked the train this afternoon. “If you want my help, you do exactly as I say. No interfering with my drinking. No whining. No lip about what the stylists and prep teams are gonna do to you. And not a word about this whole ‘but we’re married’ business, you hear? None of it. You suck it up and make nice.” Peeta and I exchanged a glance. It was the most united we had been since the Justice Building. I grumbled a “fine” and bit back any further protests. At least our mentor was offering to actually do his job.

I wonder now if Peeta is undergoing this same regimen somewhere else in the Remake Center. I don’t have much time to wonder though, because the door opens and a young man with dark skin and short cropped hair enters.

“Is she done?” he asks. His voice is low and his Capitol accent is subtler than any I’ve heard before.

I’m surprised by how normal he appears, dressed in all black, with only a light handed flick of gold eyeliner as an embellishment, especially compared to the colorful preps, who gather their things and dart out of the room in a gaggle. They’re ridiculous, but they’re completely airheaded, and it’s hard to hate them for that.

“Hello, Katniss. I’m Cinna, your stylist.” He walks closer as the door closes behind his team.

“Hello,” I echo cautiously. I’ve never seen this stylist during Game coverage before. He must be new. It’s probably why they gave him 12.

“Just give me one moment, okay?”

I nod, and he circles me slowly, eyes appraising my form. I try not to move under his gaze. I haven’t trusted an adult since my mother died. I know what sort of appetites some people have — even people who are supposed to protect you. I shiver, and I can’t help but cross my arms over my chest. Thankfully, my stylist doesn’t ask me to put them down.

“Your hair looks lovely,” he says instead. “Did you do it yourself?”

“My sister helped,” I say.

At the mention of Prim, Cinna hums solemnly. It’s not a display of pity like the commentators on television. It sounds like genuine sympathy. It sounds kind.

“Here.” He goes to a cabinet behind the table where I was showered and takes out a thin, modest robe. “I appreciate your patience. Let’s get you some food and have a chat, shall we?”

He leads me into another room where one of the four walls is a giant glass window, looking out over the city, which gleams and glints in the noonday sun. I thought the Justice Building in 12 was luxurious. It seems positively dilapidated compared to this. I sink into the plush chair Cinna offers and watch as he presses a button on the table between us, which splits to reveal a large lunch: a tureen of chicken, a cream and vegetable soup, rolls shaped like blossoming flowers, and some sort of pudding with a glazed sugar topping that smells of honey. My mouth waters and my fingers curl in the belt of my robe as Cinna sets a serving of chicken and a generously buttered roll on his plate. He notices I haven’t moved.

“Help yourself,” he says, giving me a warm smile.

“Oh.” In the Home, you absolutely do not touch your food until everyone is served and seated and the dinner bell is rung. Best behavior, Haymitch said, but Cinna just hands me a plate.

“Go on, Katniss.”

I get a small portion of soup and a roll. This kind of meal would take days of work and money to put on the table in 12, even with mine and Peeta’s shared income. Cinna frowns as he watches my meager selection, then picks up a second roll and sets it on my plate.

Oh, right. No one’s rationing rolls here. I won’t be punished for having another. I thank him but his frown doesn’t go away.

“We must seem despicable to you,” he says.

I don’t try to school my features to deny it. I get the impression that Cinna is not your average adult, nor your average Capitol snob. He’s right too. There’s only one person in the whole city I don’t despise, and I don’t even know where he is.

“No matter,” Cinna says. “Let’s talk about the opening ceremonies. My partner Portia is styling your fellow tribute, Peeta.”

That’s a new one. _Friend. Husband. Fellow tribute._ I don’t like the sound of it.

I must grimace or something because Cinna says, “Yes, I don’t like the coal miner thing anymore than you do.” That isn’t what I was thinking of at all, but my grimace deepens as I remember years past when 12’s tributes have been in tacky mining outfits, or naked and caked in coal dust. It always looks awful, demeaning.

“They’re uh **—** not the best,” I say. For some reason, I find myself fighting back a smile. Cinna’s grin returns my unspoken sentiment.

“I think that might be an understatement,” he says. I smile for real this time and I feel my hunger return. I tear into a roll as Cinna goes on.

“No, Portia and I were thinking about something a bit more … abstract.” He sets down his food and leans forward on his knees, fingers threading. “You don’t strike me as the sort of person who’d be afraid of fire, Katniss.”

“No,” I say, thinking of our house in the Seam, of Prim beside the fireplace that last morning, of Peeta’s favorite color, orange like a fiery sunset. “Not at all.”

There’s a glint in Cinna’s eyes, almost mischievous. Or maybe that’s the effect of the gold liner. “Good,” he says. “Then I think you’ll like what we have in mind.”

* * *

The buzz of anticipation is palpable as Cinna and I enter the stables, which are already packed with tributes and their stylists. I recognize some of them from the reaping footage, even with their getup. Up at the front of the line of sleek chariots, the tributes from 1 are in lavish jeweled tunics, representing their luxury industry. The tributes from 2 glint in metal armor under the stable lights. The male tribute is even more intimidating in person, grinning confidently as he talks to his counterpart. I catch a glimpse of the little girl Peeta and I thought looked so like Prim. Her hair’s done up with flowers and a headdress of colorful baubles that are probably meant to represent fruit.

I do a once over of my own outfit. A simple black unitard, high leather boots, headpiece, and a fluttery cape. It’s worlds better than anything 12’s tributes have had in previous years, but I can’t help thinking it looks lackluster compared to the ones around us. Even my face is barely made up, but Cinna’s reasoning for that is he wants them to be able to recognize me in the arena.

 _Katniss, the girl who was on fire,_ he said.

“Wait until they pour the alcohol on you.” I turn at Cinna’s note of amusement beside me, finding Haymitch smirking at his own joke as he walks up to us. I purse my lips against his humor. Then I see Peeta and his stylist Portia behind him, and my mouth settles into a line.

“Are you sure it’s advisable for you to be around an open flame?”

Our mentor’s eyes narrow at Peeta’s wisecrack, but he doesn’t say anything.

Portia smiles and shakes her head, the gold and scarlet sequins that form an intricate design from her brow bone to her cheek glittering with the movement. “It’s not alcohol. It’s a synthetic fire starter Cinna and I came up with. It’ll look real in the dark, but it’s harmless.”

I’m not sure I believe her. Part of me is still convinced we’ll end up stark naked and charred to a crisp. For the first time since we left the train, Peeta and I make eye contact. I see my own apprehension in his blue eyes, which stand out against the black of his costume. He is dressed in an identical unitard, complete with the cape. He looks away as Portia begins speaking again, and I feel the tether between us fray even further.

The stylists direct us onto the chariot. It’s pulled by four horses, bigger and more well groomed than any of the wearied animals we have to pull carts in 12. They’re black as coal and bear the district emblem on their bridles, though we won’t use those to do any guiding. The route around the Capitol streets is clearly marked and the horses are well trained. They barely stir as Cinna and Portia step on and off the chariot, adjusting a cape here, a headpiece there, shifting our body positions.

I wish Peeta would say something. I wish I could. Where is the ill-timed side commentary we’d have made just yesterday? Where is the laughter between two Community Home kids, thrust too soon into adulthood? Where is the steady weight of his hand in mine? If we weren’t in this situation, we’d make some sort of pact to tear each other’s capes off. But we don’t. Not now. We’re silent and still as the opening music strikes up and the parade begins.

The tributes from District 1 roll out on a chariot pulled by snow-white horses. District 2 follows on the growing roar of the crowd. On and on until District 11 departs. Outside, I see the sky mellowing into evening lilac. Cinna appears with a lighted torch.

“Here we go, then,” he says, and before Peeta or I have time to react, we are ablaze. I jerk my hand back from the edge of my cape, expecting heat, then gasp at the fuzzy sensation lighting up my spine. The fire doesn’t burn — it tickles. When Cinna lights our headpieces and steps back, he sighs in relief. “It works.” He touches a hand under my chin. “Heads high. Smiles. They’re going to love you.”

I raise my chin like Cinna says, and Peeta falls into sync with me as we get into position. I can’t help it. I glance at him. The way the flames play in tones of vibrant orange across his face is dazzling. I must be dazzling too.

As the chariot jolts forward beneath us, we both stumble. My hand reaches for Peeta’s automatically, and his reciprocated grasp keeps me from tumbling further. Our eyes meet, and a shaky exhale of laughter escapes into the space between us. Then we remember where we are, and look back to Cinna, smiling as instructed.

I expect Peeta to pull away. He doesn’t. Neither do I. The smile on my face doesn’t feel quite as forced with his hand in mine.

Behind us, Cinna shouts, one last idea, his arms raised into the air.

“What’s he saying?” Peeta asks.

I shake my head. Peeta glances back.

“I think he wants us to … raise our hands?”

We do, Cinna gives us a thumbs-up in confirmation, and the next thing I know we’re in the city and out of earshot. The Capitol sprawls out in front of us, buildings bright and sparkling in the gathering night. The crowd is deafening, their alarm quickly morphing into whoops and shouts of “District 12!” I feel thousands of eyes on us and I’m momentarily petrified, but then I look up at the enormous screens displaying us around the city.

I’m stunned at my own image. I know that the spectators will be able to recognize us from the reaping—Cinna was right about the subtle makeup—but I hardly recognize myself. This Katniss has never known the smack of Housemother Cord’s palm against her cheek. This Katniss intimidates the leer off of Housefather Saul’s smug face. Hot, dangerous pride sings in my blood. They wouldn’t dare hit me. They wouldn’t dare touch me.

Peeta leans down to murmur in my ear. “Can’t imagine Housemother Idabelle refusing us another blanket for our beds now, huh?”

My giggle is frenzied and free. “She never could stack the fire right.” I look up to where our hands meet above our heads, at the place where the edges of our capes are clipped to the wrists of our costumes. Fire licks and leaps around our tightly entwined fingers like a living thing. The crowd is going insane, shouting our names, flinging flowers down on us as we burn. Peeta laughs when I catch a rose and blow a kiss back to its giver. I grin at him. “Doesn’t matter much now.”

A flicker of hope rises in me. I think of what Prim said, what she made me promise. Could it be possible? Is there a way we could both come out of this as victors?

I don’t know, and I wish I did. But I decide that instead of ruminating on it now, it’s better to face the crowd and give them a show.

I give Peeta’s hand a squeeze.

Together.

Because even if we die, no one will forget us. Not our names, or our faces. We’ll make sure of it. Everyone will see us, not as kids from broken homes that are doomed to die, but as contenders.

This is the kind of fire that doesn’t go out without a fight.

* * *

The girl who serves us dinner is an Avox with milky pale skin and a pert nose that reminds me sharply of the only houseparent I liked. Housemother Martin was the one that signed the consent for me to be married to Peeta, even though I wasn’t yet eighteen, and she hated it when Housemother Cord punished people for breaking curfew, though she was rarely brave enough to stand up against it. A sad, weary look lingers around this girl’s eyes and it tugs at my heart. I know that look. I’ve seen that look on the faces of the miners as they end their shift for the day, on the faces of the starving people huddled in corners in alleyways or corners of the Hob. I want to ask her name. I want to tell her I’m capable of getting my own food and she should — what? Sit with us? That would never be allowed, but guilt ruins my appetite and I can’t eat anymore, not even when a decadent cake Cinna ordered comes out, piled high with something he calls meringue. Under the table, Peeta’s hand closes over mine where it rests on my knee. He didn’t let go of me the entire parade, and by the time we arrived at the Training Center my hand was cramping, but the excitement of the night kept me from noticing until we unglued our fingers from each other’s in the elevator.

Haymitch orders us up to bed after we watch the recap of the parade, in which we are the undisputed highlight, but I’m about as tired as I am hungry. Peeta and I loiter in the hallway between our bedrooms, leaning against our respective door frames. I let my head loll against the trim.

“You know,” Peeta says, “you grow up knowing the Games are … ” he doesn’t finish that thought, but I guess at the word _brutal_ in my head. He chuckles, then, “But I didn’t think they’d set us on fire the second we stepped off the train.”

I snort. “Is it bad that I thought it was sort of … fun?”

Peeta’s eyebrows knit together immediately and he looks so confused, but then he breaks out in a laugh. The one-eighty we’ve taken in a span of twenty four hours—less, even, if you count before the parade—has me exhaling an embarrassed laugh, shaking my head at myself.

“Wait,” I say, “Fun isn’t… the right word…” I meant it was exciting, empowering … something. Terrifying, yes, but I felt so free. I fix Peeta with a deadpan look. “You know what I meant.”

“I do.” Behind the fading mirth in his eyes I see a ghost of the kids we were in those rare moments we felt free — or as free as one could be in 12, where you can starve to death in safety.

“I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep for a while,” I admit. It’s partly the residual adrenaline from the parade, partly the frustrated swirl of emotions brought on by seeing the Avox girl, and partly the whiplash of push and pull Peeta and I are caught up in.

“Me neither,” Peeta says. He shrugs and rocks on his feet once. “Have you seen the garden?” he asks.

“Garden?”

“There’s one up on the roof. Portia showed me before dinner.”

“Meanwhile I was probably still trying to figure out how to work the shower,” I joke and he smiles.

“I don’t think half those buttons do anything,” he agrees. He nods his head upward. “You want to go check it out?”

“What, the shower?” I say with a wolfish grin. I toss my hair like I saw the blonde girl from 1 keep doing. “No, I think I’ve got the hang of it — can’t you tell?”

“Your hair does look nice,” he says. “Kind of reminds me of one of the horses in the stables…”

I shove myself off of the doorframe to playfully push his arm. He anticipates me a little too well after seven years though, and catches my wrist in a gentle grip.

“In my defense,” he says, “they had very glossy manes.”

“Weren’t you going to show me a garden or something?” I say, arching my brow. He nods, adjusts his hand to take a hold of mine.

“Yeah, I was. Come on.”

I follow him down the hall and up a flight of stairs that lead to the roof. I wonder if we’re the only ones to have access to it, being up in the penthouse. There’s a small dome-shaped room with a door to the outside, which Peeta opens, and I gape at the space he leads me out into.

It was one thing to see the Capitol from the ground, but this is something else. Long ago, my father used to say, 12’s mines held great caverns of crystals that would glitter like stars when you flashed a lantern over them. I can’t help thinking of that story as I look over the city, speechless. The wind is high, and cold, unusual for a summer night — and what’s stranger is I can hear what sounds like the music of bells, like the bells in my winter song for Prim.

Wind chimes, I realize. The garden is full of wind chimes. We have makeshift ones hanging from porches at home, but the delicate harmonies tell me these are expensive, carefully crafted instruments. It’s beautiful, haunting. I shiver.

We find a seat on the wide edge of a planter that houses some large flowering bushes, protecting us from the wind somewhat, though not completely. I wrap my arms around myself to ward off both the chill and the silence that envelops us. It’s not the same stilted hush of the train, but it’s still … off. I’m not sure what listening ears could overhear us inside, but I know we should take this opportunity to talk. It might be our only chance. And amidst the icy thoughts that have begun to creep back into my mind, I have no idea what Peeta is thinking. I settle on the least painful thing I can think of, and gesture with my foot towards the thin railing that rims the roof.

“You think anyone’s ever … ?”

“They can’t,” Peeta explains, tracking with my thoughts. “There’s a force field.”

“Always concerned about our safety,” I say. Some Capitolite won’t be able to tell that’s the exact same tone we used to talk about the houseparents, but Peeta will.

“You weren’t thinking of … ?” He frowns in concern.

“No,” I rush to assure him. “No, no, of course not. I wasn’t … I wouldn’t. I couldn’t leave Prim. Not like that.”

“I know. Me neither.” He fidgets briefly with the sleeves of his jacket. “I think … if I was going to die … I don’t know. I think I’d want to go out fighting or something.”

I think of my father, choking to death in the mines, unable to fight for his life even if he wanted to, and I understand what Peeta means. “Me too.” But as I say it, the idea of Peeta dying, fighting or not, hits me and I ask, “What are we doing, Peeta?”

“What?”

A million questions rise to the forefront of my mind. I choose the most pressing one. What are we doing up here, skirting around what’s right in front of us?

_Both of you come home. Somehow. Promise me._

Wreathed in flames and the adoration of the crowd, it almost seemed possible, but the wind and the bitter truth have sent those hopes up in smoke. We can’t both come home. I think of Peeta in the justice building after the reaping, when I asked him what we were going to do. Twenty four go in, only one comes out. His answer had been simple. Non-negotiable.

_What we’ve always done. We protect each other._

But how can we do that? The best case scenario is that one of us gets to go home to Prim. The worst is that we’re both bled out at the Cornucopia within minutes of the gong sounding. I feel my breath start to come short. No, that isn’t the worst scenario. It would be worse to—

“Katniss?”

I think I might be hyperventilating and my pulse is racing so fast I can almost hear it. I don’t remember what we were talking about before. It’s swept away in a panic that I can’t even begin to explain.

“Katniss, you’re shaking,” he says. “Here.” He unzips his jacket and wraps it around me. It’s too large for my bony frame, but I nestle gratefully into the warmth as he zips it up to my chin. “Better?”

Something about his low, gentle tone reminds me of feeble lantern light in the bathroom at the Home, of the smell of antiseptic stolen from the infirmary. Of my head slumped wearily against his shoulder as he pressed a wet rag to my split lip and swollen cheek. Of knowing we had to get out of that place, of my shock and mischievous elation at the solution. Of Peeta’s lips against my hair as we whispered agreements in the dark. Dire as that situation felt then, it seems commonplace in comparison to this. We made a plan, we saved ourselves. We always did.

But I don’t think there’s any saving ourselves from this.

I nod, but instead of thanks for the jacket what comes tumbling out is, “In the arena … what are we doing? What’s … what’s our plan? We’re going to be allies, right?”

His stricken expression gives me the answer I knew was coming anyway. I didn’t need to ask. Of course we will.

“What, you think I’m going to quit on you now?” His sarcasm barely disguises how serious he actually is. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Katniss.”

“That’s not what I was asking and you know it,” I sigh, not feeling up to our back and forth.

“Yeah.” The sarcasm’s gone, and there’s a total lack of levity in his voice when he says, “I think … we should talk about ... ” He inhales sharply and the next sentence comes out in a rush. “I think we should talk about what happens if something happens to one of us.”

The way he says it, it sounds more like a certainty than a possibility. I hear Gale’s voice in my head. _It’s what Peeta would want._ And now, I realize he was right.

And I hate him for it.

“You’re not talking about if something happens to me,” I begin haltingly, a sense of foreboding starting to gnaw at my stomach.

Peeta sighs, and leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, staring between his feet. “Listen,” he says, and I can tell he’s choosing his words carefully, as if the way he phrases what he’s about to say will make any difference to me. He looks up at me, gaze half imploring, half obstinate. “If only one of us can go home to Prim, anyone can see it should be you.”

The feeling of dread rises up from its place in my stomach like an uncoiling snake and constricts my throat. For a second I feel sick, but I push it down. I try to speak, but can’t.

“You’re her sister,” Peeta says.

I manage to force the words out. “You’re her brother. You’re my best friend.”

“I’m not really her brother, Katniss.” It sounds like it agonizes him to say as much as it does for me to hear it. How could he believe that?

“Yes, you are!” I snap. “In every way that matters, you are. You love her just as much as I do.” I throw his own protests from the Justice Building back at him. “Blood ties don’t come into it. We’re family.”

“Yes, we are,” he says firmly, “and yes, I do. Why do you think I’m saying this? Because we’re family. And family protects each other.”

“What about me?” I say. I’m suddenly angry with him. Angry he’s decided to throw his life away, to give up. Angry he didn’t let me try and solve this with him, to fix it together, as a team — the way we’ve always handled things. I’m angry at him for shutting me out last night too, I might as well admit it. “Don’t I get to have a say in this? Or am I supposed to sit back and watch you play the hero? Who protects you if you’re so busy trying to die?”

“I’m not —” Peeta exhales a frustrated breath. His tone softens. “I’m not trying to die. I’m … just not really a contender in these Games. I don’t have anything to lose. Everything I care about is back in District 12 … or right in front of me.”

He takes my hand, but I pull away from his grasp. _Right in front of me._ Of course, but … that shouldn’t mean that he has to risk his life to save mine … I don’t have time to process what he’s said, because then he’s talking again.

“What is anyone fighting for in that arena, Katniss? I mean, if you’re a Career you’re fighting for glory, maybe? Everyone else is just … trying to survive. Either way every death is the same. We’re all examples for everyone back home. But the Capitol doesn’t own me. If I’m going to die, I’m going to do it on my terms, for my family. I don’t want to be just a piece in their Games.”

 _But you’re not,_ I want to say. _I’m not. None of us are._ We may have undermined what’s expected of kids from the Community Home, but there’s no undermining the Capitol.

“Our family doesn’t mean anything to the Capitol, Peeta,” I say. “No family does. That’s how the Games work.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “Within that framework, there’s still you, and there’s still me, and there’s Prim. I don’t care about winning their game. I care about keeping our family safe.”

“You don’t think I want that too? It’s the reason we got married!”

“I know! I was there, Katniss. It was my idea, remember?”

I roll my eyes. “And so you expect me to just blindly agree to all your plans? Let you do whatever you want and leave me out of it?” I hiss. “What happened to ‘in hunger and plenty, in peace and pain?’ I’m your wife!”

“But you’re not, Katniss!” Frustration leaks from Peeta’s tone as he shakes his head at me. “None of that’s real. We didn’t even say those toasting vows. Don’t go telling me I’m not allowed to protect my best friend because of some fake contract we made. I didn’t yell at you for volunteering. How is this any different?”

His dismissal stings, though I know it’s true. “Because I had no choice! I had to volunteer for her. I’d never forgive myself if I let her go, and I don’t think you would either!”

“You think _I_ have a choice? You think I’d be able to forgive myself if you died? Katniss, you’re not making any sense.”

“Would you quit with the ‘Katniss?’” I snarl. “I volunteered!” Why can’t he see this is the only way? I didn’t just volunteer to save Prim, I realize. I volunteered to save both of them. “It has to be me, okay?”

I don’t want to leave my sister, but if it means Peeta goes home to her, there’s no contest. She’ll be better off with him, for one thing. A hunter lives kill to kill and at the whims of her customers, but Peeta’s carpentry salary will ensure Prim is always fed and warm … and loved. I don’t care what he says. He is her brother where it counts. There’s no one in the world I trust to care for her like I trust Peeta. I may trust him even more than I trust myself. He’ll be able to go on without me. They’ll be able.

If Peeta dies, if I let him die … I’ll never leave this place. Not really. I can’t go back to 12 without him. Face my sister alone. My sister, who he saved from the Community Home when I couldn’t. I owe him her safety, my freedom, our new life. I owe him everything.

And on top of that … and maybe, selfishly, more than all of that ... I don’t want to lose my best friend.

I can’t. I won’t.

“It has to be me,” I repeat.

“If it was Prim with me,” Peeta says wearily, “this wouldn’t even be a question. You’d never try and talk me out of letting her win.”

“But she’s not here,” I say. The bite has gone out of my voice, muzzled by my bleak thoughts. “It’s not her. It’s us.”

_It’s us._

It’s always been us. Two days ago that was my saving grace, my comfort, my source of strength for seven years. Tonight, it’s a death sentence.

I can’t stay here. His jacket isn’t helping anymore. I tuck my nose into the collar to try and warm up, and regret it. There’s the smell of fancy fabric, and of whatever Capitol products Peeta must have used in the shower. But beneath that, faintly, there’s the familiar smell of the wood he works with in the carpentry shop, the scent that comes home in the pine sap on his fingers or the traces of sawdust I ruffle out of his hair. I unzip the jacket and throw it back at him, trying to ignore the way the night air cuts like a knife. I stand up.

“I’m sorry, Peeta, but I’m not letting you die,” I say shortly.

“And I’m sorry, but you don’t get to decide that,” is his terse reply.

“Fine.” The wind makes my eyes smart and I blink hard to clear them as I turn my back on him. I think whatever rich fare we had for dinner is disagreeing with me because I’m nauseated as I stamp down the carpeted stairs. I find my quarters and shove the door open with my shoulder, then slam it behind me, as though Peeta will be able to hear my displeasure all the way from the garden. I throw my clothes on the floor and grab a woolen nightgown from the closet, rehearsing some cutting remarks I plan to make in the morning. High and mighty Peeta Mellark. Thinking he can just —

I’ve put the nightgown on backwards. I growl in frustration and whip it back over my head to put it on the right way. I turn off all the lights I can find the switches to. The light that illuminates the mirror gives me so much trouble I just grab a towel from the bathroom and cover the damn thing. Then I hide myself under the sheets. Tomorrow is training, where we’ll meet our competition up close.

I never thought my own best friend would be my biggest opponent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! 
> 
> we can't promise exactly when Chapter 4 will be up so as not to disappoint, but rest assured, we love this universe to bits, and we're eager for Everlark to resolve their *tension* so it's coming ... 
> 
> come talk to us on tumblr @archersandsunsets and @rosegardeninwinter
> 
> until next time!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading *blows lots of kisses*! Come chat with us on tumblr or down in the comments!


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